Page 119 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I told her I’d go slow.

That we didn’t need to name this.

That it didn’t have to be anything more than two people choosing each other for a night.

But I think I might be a liar.

Because the more I taste her skin, breathe in her soft floral scent, feel her hands tighten in my hair—the more something inside me shifts.

Deepens.

It’s not just hunger.

It’s fixation.

I want to know her.

Not just the way her body responds to my touch—but the rhythm of her thoughts.

The sound she makes when she laughs without trying to be charming. The way she looks at the mountain when she thinks no one is watching.

I want to memorize her.

The rise and fall of her breath. The shiver in her thighs. The way her voice breaks when she says my name.

And yeah—there’s something territorial in it.

Not ownership.

Not control.

But a fierce, aching desire to be the one she chooses.

To be the one she comes back to.

I’ve never felt the need to claim someone.

Never cared if I was anyone’s first call in the morning or last thought at night.

But with her breathy gasps filling the air and her fingers curling into my shoulders like she’s anchoring herself to me—I want to matter.

I want her to look at me tomorrow the way she does right now.

Like I’m not a legend.

Not a project.

Not a cautionary tale.

Just a man she wants.

And when she arches beneath me, when her eyes open and lock onto mine instead of drifting closed—it hits me.

This isn’t just about possession.

It’s about presence.

About staying.